‘Orange?’ Izarra held one up, smiling. ‘C’mon, you have to eat.’ She began peeling it, then handed him a slice.
‘Gracias.’ August took the orange and bit into it, relishing the tangy freshness.
He’d booked them both into the last second-class carriage of the train, thus making sure a quick escape would be possible if necessary. Departure at Gare de Lyon had been remarkably easy. Too easy; he’d bought the tickets with cash and hadn’t had to show his passport. Is Tyson playing cat and mouse with me, just waiting until I unravel the chronicle for him? Was it possible? It was a perturbing thought. Nevertheless, August knew if they didn’t move fast, the brief window of anonymity would evaporate and he would have to resort to some disguise before they reached Avignon. The man sitting opposite them in the carriage, dressed in a cheap suit and worn, but highly polished, leather shoes, glanced up from his book, surprised by the spoken Spanish. August noted his appearance. He lacked sophistication, the breast pocket of his jacket was smooth (no concealed weapon there), and his only luggage appeared to be a briefcase at his feet. Just a curious layperson, probably a travelling rural salesman going south for business, August concluded. When the train had pulled away from Paris, their carriage had been empty. The salesman had got on at Dijon. No agent could have known which train they were on unless they’d been spotted at Gare de Lyon, another reason August felt confident the salesman was harmless. By his calculations they had about twelve hours of grace before Interpol and possibly the CIA would have a photograph of him at all checkpoints and borders. But Izarra was the card up his sleeve – as far as he knew, no one was aware he was travelling with a companion. Catching his eye, the salesman smiled politely, then returned to his book.
‘Last time I was in France was in 1932,’ Izarra remarked, looking out of the window. ‘I was with my father. I was twelve. We were travelling to meet an old friend of his in Toulouse. At the time he told me it was about breeding stock – my father had this crazy idea to create a special kind of dairy cow, but really I think it was about antique books.’
‘Your father had an interest in antique books?’
‘I think it was my mother’s legacy that inspired it.’ Unconsciously, her eyes slid to August’s bag beside him on the seat, and he knew she meant the chronicle.
‘I remember the Frenchman was a kind of gentleman farmer. He lived in an old villa, with a huge library. My father was very polite and a little cowed. But it was thrilling to have him all to myself. It was the last time really,’ she added, wistfully.
‘The war?’
‘He was an idealist not a soldier. He wasn’t going to survive, that was obvious to all of us, especially my sister. But not to him. After his death she fought for both of them.’
August glanced over at their fellow traveller, who was still engrossed in his book. Leaning forward, August took Izarra’s hand.
‘Whatever happens, Izarra, remember you still have family.’
‘Gabirel is all I have.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘What about you? Why no wife, no children? Or are you married?’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Funny that I’ve not asked you before.’
‘No wife.’ A sudden image of Cecily’s devastated face as she walked out that morning pricked at his conscience. ‘I guess I’m just the original perennial bachelor,’ he finished, weakly.
‘So you are frightened of something,’ she concluded, wryly. He watched her face, acutely aware of how much he wanted her at that moment, her black eyes defiant and vulnerable at the same time, the smiling mouth contradicting the irony held in her gaze, the slight defensiveness of her shoulders belying the strength beneath, her muscular arms now folded across her breasts. She was right, he realised – he was a coward, still stumbling away from the battlefield, still in shock.
‘I’m frightened of losing people. This keeps me distant.’ Somehow the statement was easier to make in Spanish, less of a confession. He sat back in his seat, the swaying of the train a comfort.
‘Me too,’ Izarra murmured.
As she said it the train pulled into a small rural station, brakes screeching.
‘They change porters here,’ the salesman opposite explained, in French, to August and Izarra with a shrug. ‘It will only be a ten-minute stop.’
As they waited August leaned his head against the wall and watched the train guards step off the train and exchange greetings with the oncoming crew. Further down the immaculately clean platform with its hanging baskets of flowers, he saw an old man pulling a cart from which he was selling baguettes, water, fruit, as well as newspapers to passengers through the train windows. As the man neared their carriage the newspaper headlines came into sight. August casually began reading through the carriage window. Under the headline ‘Who is to be Soviets’ New Leader?’ was another smaller headline: ‘American Wanted for Murder of Musician in Pigalle.’ August tensed up. Izarra noticed and followed his gaze, then glanced back at him her face grim with fear. Just then the train whistle blew and they pulled out of the station.
16
They hurried along rue Banasterie. The wide boulevard ran into the centre of the old city, the light grey eighteenth-century buildings flanking them. It was early evening and the streets were still busy with shoppers and workers returning home. August felt horribly exposed, despite a broad-brimmed hat he’d bought at the station and a deliberately relaxed gait – the persona of a Parisian bourgeois on a weekend trip with his fiancée. He was painfully aware how both of them, particularly Izarra, still dressed in her simple travelling clothes, might stand out among the bustling, well-dressed pedestrians. He didn’t like feeling so vulnerable. He was sure Interpol would have received an old photograph of him from Leconfield House by now, and had, most likely, circulated it among their regional offices. Now he was thankful for the presence of the Basque woman. Having Izarra by his side would work in his favour, since no one was looking for a couple. Already the chameleon’s sensibility, the ability to adapt and disappear into the immediate environment, the skill that he had honed so well during his time in occupied France, had begun to drum against his brain. Disappear, disappear, hide in plain sight, think yourself invisible. They arrived at a street corner. He glanced at the road sign. According to his map, Edouard’s place was in a small alley just around the corner. He noticed a policeman turning into the street. After pulling Izarra after him, August ducked into a greengrocers. He asked the shopkeeper for a bag of grapes while watching the policeman through the window. To his relief the gendarme took position in the centre of the junction and began directing the evening’s traffic.
‘C’mon, but don’t hurry. Remember, we are just a couple on holiday. Try and look like my wife – they’re looking for a single man,’ he told her, as they stepped back onto the street. Izarra tucked her arm into his, while he carried the shopping bag, attempting to appear as relaxed as possible.
Rue de la Molière was a lane off rue Saint-Etienne, and despite its literary ambition was a rundown back alley dotted with empty rubbish bins. Number twenty appeared to be the ground and first floor of an old stone building sandwiched between a garage workshop and the back of a restaurant. The front of the garage was still pulled open and filled with mechanics in overalls busily working on several cars hoisted up in the air. A radio blared out in the car and the men barely acknowledged the couple as they hurried past.
Standing in front of the façade of the building, August pressed the bell, looking up and down the lane. No one had followed them; the mechanics hadn’t even looked up. Inside the building there was the sound of footsteps running down steep stairs, then the door swung open.
‘Edouard, it’s me, August Winthrop.’
Edouard Coutes stared up at August, a swift piercing glance, as he instantly assimilated all the information he needed, then glanced over at Izarra. His face gave nothing away. With a quickness August recognised, he ushered them into the darkened corridor, then, after scanning the street, closed the door firmly behind him.
Once in
side he pulled August into an embrace. ‘Comrade, it’s been a lifetime,’ he said, in French, his head reaching no higher than August’s shoulder.
The large room was filled with an old printing press, the inked rollers still turning, spitting out large sheets of printed paper. The noise was almost deafening. August and Izarra stood at the entrance and waited while Edouard, pulling on a large lever, turned off the machine.
‘Come in, come in, you look exhausted, my dear, come rest,’ he told Izarra, then turned to August. ‘Nowadays it’s not often I get to shelter a fugitive. We should celebrate with some burgundy and then we talk.’
Izarra threw herself onto a small couch at one end of the room while Edouard, moving with that characteristic energy August remembered from years before, took a good bottle of burgundy from inside a cupboard. He balanced three glasses on a table covered in magazine proofs.
‘I heard about Jimmy’s murder on the radio. I assume that’s why you’re here?’ he asked August, as he concentrated on pouring the wine.
‘He gave me the list, the night before. I promised to complete something for him. He was investigating something and —’
‘He wanted you to take over. Don’t worry, my friend, I knew Jimmy was dying. And I am correct in thinking you were not the one who hasten his fate?’
‘I’m being set up, Edouard. The question is why and by whom?’
‘The same person who silenced Jimmy wants to silence you perhaps.’
He handed August a glass then took one over to Izarra. He held his own up.
‘To the struggle, may we fight for ever, salud.’
‘Salud.’ August drank; the wine was strong and fortifying.
Edouard smacked his lips in satisfaction. ‘Is good, no? Not only has this burgundy legs, it has thighs.’
Now August had a chance to look about him, he noticed the newly printed pamphlet appeared to be about a local historical society. Edouard caught his gaze.
‘This used to be a printing press for the resistance. I ran it all during the war. Nowadays I’m just a whore to whoever pays, but I cover my rent.’
‘You don’t seem surprised to see me, Edouard.’
‘August, I am delighted to see you, but surprised? Why should I be, your name is all over the radio. You are wanted for Jimmy’s murder, and I think some murder back in London. A professor …’
‘Copps.’
‘That’s the name. Such celebrity is dangerous, my friend.’
‘The two could be linked. Jimmy had an enemy and I have something that enemy wants.’
Edouard threw up his hands. ‘Please, too much information is dangerous. I trust you and I trusted Jimmy. It is enough he sent you to me. How can I help?’
‘We need somewhere for a few days. I have some research to carry out in Avignon. I’ll also need a disguise.’
Edouard glanced in Izarra’s direction. ‘And the woman?’ he asked, softly.
‘Connected and committed to helping me. Edouard,’ August lowered his voice, ‘she is La Leona’s sister.’
Edouard whistled. ‘So royalty, then.’
‘This mission is for both the Republic and Euskadi.’ August couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded so serious.
Edouard turned to Izarra. ‘Kaixo, I am honoured, Mademoiselle. I was a great admirer of your sister.’
For a moment Izarra glared back at August, furious he’d given away the identity of her sister, but she also knew such knowledge was galvanising for anyone who’d fought with the Republicans in Spain.
‘Thank you. Your Euskara is good.’ She smiled politely back at Edouard.
‘I had a grandfather from Irún. But please, allow me to feed you both and then we talk.’
They sat in the back office, a small room dominated by an old desk and one large leather chair. Spread out on the table was the food Edouard had brought in – a hunk of bread, tomatoes with the vine leaves still on them, a large round of white goat’s cheese and several slices of ham. He watched amused as August and Izarra ate ravenously.
‘Sorry.’ August wiped his mouth. ‘We haven’t had a proper meal since yesterday lunchtime.’
‘Don’t worry, my friend. Besides, I think it was I who taught you an army marches on its stomach.’
‘Didn’t stop us starving in Spain.’
‘Ah, but we starved in style. Remember that time you found the jar of caviar in the Ritz Madrid during one of the raids? Only after we’d eaten it did you discover it had belonged to the Soviet general Emilio Kléber. That night we had caviar on stale talo.’ August laughed, but the Frenchman continued: ‘But you were extraordinary. A light in all that chaos. A true idealist, it was because of that I feared for you. That and your terrible shooting. It still depresses me, all those young men and I was given ancient Soviet rifles and less than a week to train them.’
‘You did your best.’
‘It was a slaughterhouse, a fucking abattoir and, when André Marty accused my commander Delasalle of treason and had him executed, I’m sorry, for me that was the end of the Left. The Butcher of Albacete they called him – you know I believe he killed more of us than Franco! And there is no doubt in my mind now that Gaston Delasalle was framed by Marty. But imagine if we had won? Imagine if the Republic had beaten Franco, Hitler, Mussolini. Maybe then Hitler would not have been so encouraged to invade the rest of Europe – perhaps the world would not have gone to war.’
‘Without the support of any of the major Western powers, the Republic was never going to win. It was David without his sling against Goliath wielding a brand-new club.’
‘And now, with Stalin gone?’
‘A new world order perhaps, but not without a war.’
‘Do you really think that?’
‘It’s possible, but I’m hoping it’s too soon. Europe’s still exhausted and America is caught up in Korea, but Eisenhower is nervous, very nervous. One thing’s for sure: they will keep the partition of Berlin now, maybe even carve the country into two.’ August pulled out his cigarettes and lit one up. He had only about ten left. ‘So Edouard, I can’t afford to stay for more than a few days. We have to move fast. I am attracting more flies than a dead cow.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘An ancient villa, located south-east of the city along the river.’
Edouard looked surprised. ‘This is what you are risking your life for?’
‘It’s a key to a massacre.’
‘The shooting of my sister,’ Izarra added.
Edouard looked from one to the other then nodded. ‘In that case it is more than an honour to help.’ He turned back to August. ‘I have a close friend who is a local historian. I can get you several old maps to study. I’ll make up some story about wanting to publish a piece on historical sites. But you can’t go out like that, both of you look foreign. Avignon is a fairly sleepy town, apart from the usual petty crime. Nothing much happens, but the chief of police likes to keep an eye on old anarchists, especially me, ever since I exposed him as an ex-collaborator.’ Edouard clapped his hands in glee. ‘Not a popular move, but then I have never wanted to win a popularity contest. I have an old soldier’s uniform, it should fit you.’
Izarra glanced up at August’s hair. ‘Some black hair dye and scissors would help.’
‘Certainly, and I will also bring a good French dress. I don’t mean to offend, Madame, but in those clothes you look like a renegade.’ He still managed to sound charming, but as he turned to the door Izarra grimaced. August, amused, couldn’t help grinning.
‘Come, I’ll show you your quarters, follow me.’ Edouard gestured for them to follow.
After collecting up their bags they went back out to the printing press. He walked them to the middle of a wall, then pushed a small table away from it, revealing a trapdoor set into the floor. He hoisted it up and immediately a steep wooden ladder appeared leading down into a cellar. Edouard kneeled and, after sticking his arm into the trapdoor, found a switch fixed to the cellar’s
ceiling. Electric light flooded the steps.
‘This was used by the resistance during the war to hide Allied fighter pilots. No one in Avignon knows of its existence except me.’
They climbed after him down the narrow ladder, Izarra first, then August. Once he was standing on the concrete floor, August whistled in amazement. The basement was large, larger than the floor above; there was an iron bunk bed in the corner, a washing stand, a camping stove, several large bare tables and a wood burner in the corner.
‘It extends under the street, which was useful during the occupation, I can tell you. See that disk set into the ceiling?’ Edouard pointed up to a circle of wood above their heads. ‘That leads into a manhole that takes you out into a side lane. We used it a couple of times, when the SS searched the printing house. I apologise for the cold, but once we get the burner going, it will warm up in no time. It’s not exactly the Hotel Inglés, but it’ll be comfortable enough for a week.’
August had already placed his bag on one of the tables and was busy unpacking his notes and the chronicle.
‘It’s perfect, thank you, Edouard.’
‘There’s one running tap, cold water, but there’s a kettle you can heat up on the stove. During the day you don’t have to worry about making too much noise, the printing press is so loud above you, no one will hear anyhow. As long as you’re gone by nine in the morning and back after five, it is unlikely anyone will see you.’
‘Can you get me the disguise and the hair dye and possibly the old map tonight?’
‘Absolutely. Anything else you need?’
‘I’ll need the use of a darkroom, in a day or so. Any local photographer you trust not to ask questions?’
‘My wife, you can trust her. We met in the resistance.’
‘Excellent.’
Edouard turned to leave. Calling out, August stopped him. ‘One last thing – do you have a friend in the hotel business?’
Edouard grinned. ‘You are disgusted with my accommodation already?’
The Map Page 35
